Heart Troubles Read online

  “Uh-huh,” he said. He drove faster. “I’m sure the Parkers’ party won’t last that long.”

  “Rut if it does,” she asked, “shall we announce it to everyone?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not? What will you say?”

  She turned to him. “I’ll say,” she said pleasantly, “that a year ago today, September twenty-first, I promised my husband solemnly—after he’d begged me for days and weeks and months to promise him solemnly—I’d stick it out for another year.”

  “I see,” he said. “And what if they ask you what you’re going to do now?”

  “I’ll say that because absolutely nothing has changed and, having stuck out my year through thick and thin, mostly thin, I’ve decided to go free, as free as a bird. Off on my own, to find out what the good life really is like. And that tomorrow morning will see me packing my bags.”

  “Very good,” he said. “Very well put.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They drove in silence. He had forgotten that promise, that bargain, or whatever it was they had made a year ago. Except that he had not really forgotten, only pushed it back into a little mental closet he kept specifically for old, unpleasant pacts, contracts he had been forced to sign, things he had had to compromise about or beg for. Of course he remembered it now though he had not remembered the exact date. It was like her to remember the date, and it was also like her not to have mentioned it to him since then or let him know she had been counting the days, as if the period were a prison sentence. It was funny, really, to realize that for the last three hundred and sixty-five days she had been quietly going about the ritual of living but biding her time.

  “How cute of you to remember.”

  She laughed softly. “I haven’t had much else to think about.”

  After a moment he said, “You know, I really thought things were going pretty well.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she said. “Oh, look, Hugh! Look at the sun now.”

  He looked. Only a bright tip showed, and the sky above it was Chinese red. “Pretty,” he said, looking back at the road.

  “Don’t drive so fast.”

  “We’re going to be late as it is.”

  “I wish it weren’t the Parkers. I hate the Parkers.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten you hate the Parkers. It’s very helpful, darling, having you hate the Parkers, since you know he’s considering a script of mine.”

  “I know,” she said. “But that’s been one of my troubles all along. I’ve never been able to like people I utterly despise. Pomposity and arrogance I think I could forgive him, even when he tries to kiss me, if he didn’t try to do it in such a pompous, arrogant way.”

  “Well, I’m sure Ed Parker will enjoy the little announcement you’re planning to make at midnight.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But if he should appear too interested, I shall have to add that Ed Parker, alas, is not for me.”

  “You’re doing very well,” he said. “You should have been the writer and not I.”

  “A number of people have said that somebody else should be the writer and not you.”

  “Why, thank you, Lucille! You’re always so very, very sweet.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “Tell me,” he said. “All those days and weeks and months when I supposedly begged you to stick it out another year—and frankly I don’t remember begging you quite that long—what made you decide to stay?”

  “Don’t you remember?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Well,” she said, “it was like all the other times I’ve agreed to stay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was because I thought, Heel that he is most of the time, every now and then he does something wonderful.”

  “Those lines,” he said, “sound just as fresh as when they were written by Oscar Hammerstein.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “but that was what I thought.”

  “And what was the wonderful thing I did a year ago?”

  “It was something you said.”

  “What did I say?”

  “I’ve forgotten.”

  “Lucille—”

  “Please. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

  He looked at her again. Her right arm trailed out the window, her left hand reposed in her lap, but there was something rigid about her whole pose, something hard and resolute in the set of her shoulders. Her face was turned away from him.

  “Nine years is a long time,” he said finally.

  “I know,” she said. “Very long.”

  “You’d think that in such a long time we might have learned something.”

  “Oh, I have,” she said. “I’ve learned a great deal.”

  “What have you learned?”

  “I’ve learned all about geniuses.” And she added, “Or should it be genii?”

  “Genii are what you get when you rub magic lamps,” he said.

  She laughed dryly. “That’s hilarious, Hugh.”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll think of something better. Tell me more about geniuses. What have you learned about them?”

  She leaned back against the leather seat. “Oh,” she said, “I’ve learned that gifted, talented—geniuses, really, like you, are erratic and unpredictable. They have temper tantrums and have to be comforted like babies. You have to pamper a genius or he sulks.”

  “I see. And what else?”

  “I’ve learned that gifted, talented geniuses like you are extremely selfish and demanding and expect the world to revolve around them.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ve learned that people like you, who write fantastically funny comedies, who were put in the world to make audiences hold their sides with laughter, who can come up with twenty-four brand-new gags a day, are really, deep inside—what is the cliché?—clowns with breaking hearts. And that people like you, who can put everybody at a cocktail party in stitches, actually have great big bleeding, babyish souls.”

  “Very good! Excellent!” he said.

  “And that people like you,” she went on, “feel cruelty and smallness can be forgiven because you’re talented. The world has to overlook your fits of bad temper. And your sulks. Even your fibs. Just because you’re sometimes very humorous. And I’ve learned that—”

  “You’re really wound up,” he said. “Go on.”

  “And I’ve learned that when people like you promise that someday you’re going to do something great and important and honest and—your own cliché—‘contribute to the great library of human culture,’ that when people like you say things like that, it sounds very pretty but it never happens. Because people like you are really flops.”

  “Flops? Do you really think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t say you’d done too badly, Lucille,” he said easily. “You’ve got a maid, a mink, a house in Pebble Beach.”

  “Oh, lord!” she said. “Is that the way you measure success? A house in Pebble Beach, a maid, and a mink! Besides, I never asked for those things. You just presented them to me.”

  “You mean you didn’t want them?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’ve had good use out of some of those things.”

  She didn’t seem interested any more. “I know.” And then she said, “Hugh, let’s not talk about it. I’m sorry I started it—truly I am.”

  “You were brave,” he said, “to put up with it all for nine years.”

  “Oh, look!” she said. “Look at the gulls, how low they’re flying! Look at that one swoop!”

  He looked at the birds against the fading sky. He reached down and turned on the low-beam headlights. “I wish you could remember,” he said.

  “Remember what?”

  “What it was I said a year ago.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do remember.”

  “What was it?”

  “I’m sorry. I don
’t want to spoil it by repeating it to you.”

  “I see.”

  “It was one of the few rather sweet things you’ve ever said. That’s another thing about people like you, about geniuses. You’re very lucky; the right thing pops into your head at just the right moment, and you say it. Your whole life can be about to collapse around you, and something steps in and saves the day. It’s almost uncanny, the narrow escapes that geniuses have—by sheer fool’s luck.”

  “If I could remember the lucky thing I said, I’d say it again now,” he said softly.

  “You’d put it into the script, you mean.”

  “No, I—”

  “Don’t bother,” she said. “This script, this particular script, is over. We can’t use another installment.”

  “Well, you know me,” he said. “I always love a happy ending.”

  “It’s not in the cards for this one, I’m afraid.”

  “Too bad,” he said. “I had such high hopes.”

  He felt her look at him again, then look away. He thought, Perhaps she was right; perhaps he had been writing this script for too long. Possibly he had been writing too much of it by himself and had been resisting her collaboration. But surely it was too late now to go back over their marriage and make revisions.

  The trouble was, he was not a genius. He knew that. Smart, yes. Clever, yes. Resourceful, good at keeping his eye on the main chance. He was all those things, but not a genius. Of course, he had been called a genius before. Genius is perhaps the cheapest word in show business. “Hugh Martin is a genius.” “Call in Hugh Martin; he’ll save the script. The guy’s a genius.” He’d heard it over and over again; but, he thought wryly, at least he was smart enough not to believe it. As for the other part—well, she was wrong there, too. He had it in him. Someday he would contribute to the great library of human culture. There was plenty of time. It was still early; he was only thirty-five. The big thing, the important thing, would come in due course. He’d planned his life pretty well so far; it had gone off without too many hitches. He’d plan the rest, too, and find a slot for everything.

  He knew how things should be. Life is like a poker game; to get through it successfully requires certain dodges, a certain manner, a sense of situation, knowing when to bluff and when to play it straight. He had tried to teach her how things should be, which included how to dress, how to use makeup, how to talk, and how to mix a memorable cocktail. But on the whole she had been a reluctant student. That, essentially, always had been the difficulty between them. “You criticize me,” she said. But of course, he criticized her! He had to criticize her, didn’t he, when she made mistakes?

  Suddenly sad, he remembered Lucille’s little attempts to show that perhaps she, too, knew how things should be. At parties, for instance, she would be solemn when everyone else was being witty, and when the conversation was serious she would make jokes. And her jokes, he often had told her flatly, did not come off; her timing was all wrong. Be charming without trying to be funny, he had told her again and again. Her little failures embarrassed him. She had a habit of forgetting to freshen her lipstick and of forgetting to zip the last inch of zipper on the back of her dress—little things, but they were important, weren’t they? Of course. She made grammatical mistakes. She tried so hard to play her part that she was pathetic in it, so pathetic and awkward that he was forever having to think up lines to cover her mistakes.

  But worst of all, of course, was the way she sometimes managed, with a thoughtless word, to deflate the small balloon of confidence that he liked to keep blown up around him. And when this happened—Well, he thought, perhaps I have a few faults, too.

  The sun was gone; a strip of far horizon was in a final blaze of Technicolor; he was driving very fast. He thought, But the point is, I do love her.

  Perhaps he was a heel. Probably no other woman in the world would have put up with him for nine whole years, and for this alone he loved her. Of course, just because she had put up with him did not mean she loved him. Yet for a time, when they first were married, it had seemed as if she did. He thought of those early weeks, when they’d been gay together. She loved the sea, the sky, the earth, just being outdoors. They had spent days on the beach, driving in the hills, picnicking in the woods—like happy children. That was it. She had been so young, only twenty then. But he couldn’t play forever. And so, for years—those carefree days were long past—she had merely lived with him patiently, putting up with him. How could he expect her to love him? Yes, that one point, that tiny but significant point, had been left out of the script. If he had the script to do over again he would put that in somehow. And all at once, desperately, he knew that he couldn’t live without her. She had come to fill too deep a cavity within him.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “if we had had children—”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps not. It’s too late now.”

  “Not too late to have children.”

  “No, but too late to want them. That’s the big thing. For nine years we haven’t wanted them. Or, rather, you haven’t. You can’t start wanting things like children this late.”

  “Perhaps if there hadn’t been so many parties. Things like that.”

  “There are a lot of perhapses.”

  “I love you, Lucille.”

  “Ah, Hugh,” she said earnestly, “I believe you. I know you love me in your own funny way. But—”

  Suddenly something struck the front fender of the car. She screamed, “Hugh!”

  He pressed the brake pedal hard.

  “You hit something!” she cried.

  “Wait here,” he said. He opened the door and stepped out. He walked slowly back on the edge of the highway, searching along the dark roadside. At last he saw it—a sea gull lying on the asphalt shoulder. He went to it, knelt, and touched it. Its wing jerked slightly under his hand. He picked it up. The bird was limp and surprisingly heavy. He carried it back to the car. “Look,” he said softly.

  “Oh, a gull!” she cried. “Oh, the poor thing!”

  “It’s alive,” he said. “And I think its wings are all right.” Gently he placed it on the seat of the car.

  “Hugh,” she said, “what are you going to do with it?”

  He got into the car.

  “Leave it by the road, for heaven’s sake, Hugh!”

  He said nothing and started the motor.

  “Hugh, if this is going to be one of your jokes, taking a sea gull to the Parkers’ party, don’t, please! It’s not funny—it’s horrible!”

  He swung the car out into the road again and made a wide U turn, heading back the way they had come.

  “Hugh, what in the world are you doing?” Her voice was tearful.

  “Quiet! Be quiet,” he snapped. He reached for the gull beside him on the seat and lifted it to his lap. He drove very fast. It was six miles back to the house, but he made it in fewer minutes. He turned into the driveway, stopped the car, got out, and ran up the steps, carrying the bird.

  The house was empty, immaculate, filled only with serene white furniture. Lucille’s high heels followed him across the polished floor.

  “Get me a medicine dropper,” he said. “Quick.”

  She ran out, carrying the dropper. He seized it. Cradling the gull in the crook of his left elbow, he lifted the stopper from the whiskey decanter. He jabbed the medicine dropper into the bottle and withdrew a few drops. Then he pressed the bird’s bill open firmly with his fingers. Slowly, a drop at a time, he trickled the whiskey into the bird’s mouth. Then he waited. Standing tensely beside him, Lucille waited too.

  The gull’s eyes fluttered open. Hugh took the bird to the wide glass door and carried it onto the high terrace that overlooked the sea. He raised the bird on the palm of his hand and held it outstretched for several moments. Suddenly, with a leap and a flash of wings, the gull rose and soared away into the night.

  Lucille sobbed, “Oh, thank God!” and sat down hard on one of the terrace chairs, her face in her hands.
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br />   “Come on, let’s go,” he said gruffly. “We’re going to be late.”

  She stood up and followed him to the car.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, “I used to love birds. They were a hobby.” He started the car. “It was a funny kind of hobby, I guess. The other kids used to call me Birdbrain.” He laughed softly. “They were jealous because I was the smartest kid in class. So they called me Birdbrain and left me alone with my birds.”

  They headed south again, faster than ever, because now they were going to be very late indeed, and he tried to think about Ed Parker and the funny script he wanted Ed to buy.

  After a while he said, “Nine years,” and paused. “Look, Lucille, suppose we take a trip somewhere—how about that? How about Mexico? You always loved Mexico. Or Hawaii. What do you think of that, Lucille? I mean, my lord, Lucille, nine years! There must have been something to keep us together that long. Look, suppose we sell the house? I mean it. Suppose we move out into the valley? Or suppose we go south?”

  “No, no,” she said softly. “That isn’t what I want to know.”

  “What, then?”

  “It wasn’t—it wasn’t just part of a script, just then, back at the house, was it? You didn’t do that, did you, just because—just because you thought the story needed a tender scene?”

  He glanced at her. Her head was back against the leather upholstery, and she was looking straight up at the sky that flew by above them, and her eyes seemed stabbed with stars.

  Then quickly she said, “No, don’t answer. I know it wasn’t that. I’m sorry I said it.” He felt her hand touch his arm. “Nine years,” she said. “Shall we try for ten?”

  He started to say something; then a memory stopped him. It was a memory of himself not as a boy who loved birds but as a man not so long ago. He had been in his study, talking on the telephone, having an argument with a producer. The producer had wanted some changes in a script, involving lines that Hugh had written for the leading woman character. Hugh had been against the changes and had said, “No, no.… No, she’s not that kind of woman! She wouldn’t say that. Sure, she’s beautiful and warm and tender, but she’s got something else, too. A kind of spark, an intelligence, a quality of nobility. She’s not just a lovely mannequin; she’s a very real woman—someone like Lucille!” And as he had said that he had turned and seen Lucille standing in the doorway. It had been just a year ago.